National Book Critics Circle nominees / Criticism

The story of Michelangelo's struggle to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling is one of legendary proportions. The incredible difficulties of painting a huge vaulted ceiling in the demanding medium of fresco provide drama enough. Add to this the fiery personalities of the artist and his exalted client, Pope Julius II, and you have a story of grand proportions. But, as King hastens to point out, not everything you may have heard about this great achievement is true. Although Michelangelo did paint many parts of the vast fresco himself, he also had assistants who worked on other parts. And, although he did indeed have to paint in a position that was very uncomfortable, the evidence indicates he stood on a platform with his head bent back, facing up at the vault. But with a story as inherently fascinating to recount as this one, such minor demythologizing hardly detracts. Not only does King describe the complicated process of fresco painting, but he also provides details of Michelangelo's family problems and Pope Julius's military campaigns. The result is a lively depiction of a tumultuous era, with cameo portraits of some of its key figures, including Luther, Erasmus, Machiavelli, the epic poet Ariosto, Leonardo da Vinci, and Raphael Santi. By Merle Rubin

Rebecca Solnit finds an eloquent home in paradox. Her account of the evolution of photography - a mix of social history, natural history, and the biography of 19th-century photographer Eadweard Muybridge - luxuriates in the paradoxes of time, science, and modern technology. Photography, she writes, "was a technological breakthrough for holding onto the past, a technology always rushing forward, always looking backward." In lyrical prose, Solnit offers a wealth of historical detail and an expansive survey of the period. But the marvel of her book is its articulation of a watershed in human thought - how the coming of railroads, the birth of photography, and the subduing of the American West transformed our notions of space and time, and standardized human experience. From an age when trains were likened to dragons and cities 20 miles apart often tracked time in different ways, humans thrust themselves into an era where a second could be split and time rewound, divided, recorded, and controlled. "In some psychological and spiritual way," Solnit writes, "we became a different species operating at a different pace, as though tortoises became mayflies. We see much they did not, and can never see as they did again." By Christina McCarroll

At every level, "Regarding the Pain of Others" is a fiercely challenging book. Sontag's theme is the imagery of atrocity. In the modern world, the most indelible horrific images (principally of war) are likely to be photographs. Photographs shock. They accuse. They assault. They haunt. And they also document. Photographs are, or can be, detachedly objective because they are mechanically instantaneous. But at the same time, Sontag points out, they indicate the presumed authenticity of a personal witness. For those of us who have not experienced the dread and terror of war firsthand, images of war "perform a vital function." "Let the atrocious images haunt us," she cries. "This is what people can do to each other. Don't forget." Unphotographed atrocities seem "more remote." Having said all this, and with masterly articulateness, Sontag then insinuates some of the other sides of the question. Photographs don't "tell us everything we need to know," she points out. They can misrepresent and distort. It's not incidental that, as with her early book "On Photography," there is not a single illustration included. Words, Sontag seems to imply, can say it all. And arguably (in her hands, at least) say it better. By Christopher Andreae

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